


posing

by qthulhu



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), Venom (Movie 2018)
Genre: Bi Peter Parker, Body Horror, Chatlogs, Fire, Gore, Graphic Description, Horror, Mystery, Queer Ned Leeds, Weird Biology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2019-08-03 07:26:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16321781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qthulhu/pseuds/qthulhu
Summary: It starts as a tickle in Peter's throat, and blooms into an ache as clunky and dull as a butter knife in his chest. He juggles the growing ailment, his alter ego, college, and a fresh job for as long as he can.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> the story is peter-centric. i got the idea after hopping around spider wikipedia articles after binging some coyote peterson videos. the dude is dope. anyways, one species stood out to me, especially after watching venom. the symptoms i was originally going to throw at peter as a side-effect from the original spider bite ended up becoming this...mess. 
> 
> shipping isn't the main focus of this fic, but eddie/venom sybiote will definitely be present. i'm open to including other ships if y'all want me to, otherwise im just going to have fun with the character's dynamics as they are in the movies.
> 
> check notes at the end of chapters for trigger warnings - they're updated as the story progresses.
> 
> \--------
> 
> HEY SO WE GOT A COUPLE OF CHANGES I NEED TO CLARIFY. 
> 
> 1\. the first time i posted this fic, peter was in high school. that felt a little too weird for me to keep since hes a child and eddie brock is a full grown adult and hanging out together would be weird under any circumstance other than superheroing, so i aged him up. i also felt like it'd serve the story best, considering he's supposed to be struggling with his health and i doubt may would just let him do that in her home. he also has a new roommate.
> 
> 2\. the way he gets The Thing is different.

The city twinkles at night. Instead of stars in the cloudy grey sky, there are stars on the Earth. The lamps in bedroom windows, streetlights flickering between green, yellow and red, and captivating musical ads taller than elementary schools shout **look at me**.

Peter watches the colors shift. His legs, dangling over the edge of a terrace, cross at the ankles. The brisk night air blows on his cheeks. People below are ants and he is a fly on the metaphorical ceiling of the city. It’s not the highest building Peter’s ever climbed, but it’s up there. At least in the top ten, tall enough to get adrenaline pounding in his ears. He swallows the last of his dinner - three dripping hot dogs lathered in mustard and cheese from the vendor across the street from his dorm - and pulls the bottom of his mask back over his nose. The fresh fuel in Peter's belly rejuvenates him.

"What do you got for me, Kar?" Peter asks brighty.

" _Very little.”_

“Time to work my thesis then.”

“ _Well…”_

“Hm?”

 _“There's a small fire a few blocks away, but I don't think you should interfere. Go home and get some rest before class_."

“And miss all the fun? As if."

Peter squints at the skyline. He crouches and grabs hold of the ledge of the building via his fingertips. His chin hits his chest as he looks down below. A couple of upturned heads meet his gaze, probably wondering what the hell he’s doing. With the gentle _whoosh_ of the wind in his ears, Peter launches into a freefall. The first web he slings **_splats_ ** onto one of the glittering advertisements, smack dab in the center of some poor models forehead.

There’s definitely a camera flash as he swings closer to the ground. He waves in its direction, though he can’t spot the source since he’s moving so fast.

Karen barely warns him of the turn; by then, her help is unneeded since the smoke curls into the sky in dark grey tendrils. He follows them until he reaches the source: a window a couple floors from the ground, cracked open and spilling into the alley.

**_snap!_ **

Peter lands on the street level and unholsters a new heat-resistant formula. Well, heat-resistant as in it held up to a lighter's flame when Peter tested it at the dorms. The cartridge clicks into place. He fires a few prep shots at the garbage, then aims at the window.

The web catches an overhead light inside the second floor. Peter tugs once, testing its strength. Thankfully, the string holds. He grapples up the mortar in long strides. The momentum launches him through the window and he follows the motion to a somersault, smacking into the tiled floor of a bathroom and tumbling right into the side of the porcelain toilet.

"You and I have two totally different definitions of small," Peter mutters, releasing the shot. Smoke clouds the air just above his head.

" _It_ was _small_ ," Karen answers. " _I suggested you go home because it didn't look like it'd stay that way_."

"Pfft!” Peter rubs where his head hit and slowly stands.

The high school Cap PSAs turned out to be useful after all: particularly the fire safety video. Peter waves the back of his hand by the door handle, **hot** , and yanks the towel from its rung. He wraps it around the scalding metal and turns the knob.

 _Definitely not an accidental fire_ , Peter thinks.

The apartment is, for lack of a better word, fucked. There are three sections in the main room: a kitchen, living room, and office, without any doors separating them, then a bedroom, and what Peter assumes to be a closet. The living room and office areas take the most damage: the furniture’s flipped, half of it ablaze, shattered glass sparkles on the floor, smudges of blood are on the walls. A muffled ring, like a hissing kettle or a scream, resonates throughout the heated air.

“Hello?” he calls, slipping the towel through a loop on his suit should come in handy again. He crouches low and scuffles across the wooden floor on his hands and feet, senses on high alert for the arsonist (or a victim). The bedroom, door thrown wide open with bright fairy lights strung along the windows, appears empty, so he crawls passed without pausing.

Peter toes over toppled bookshelf. Its books all lay out, some half open, some burning, and some neatly shut with footprints on the cover. A thin trail of blood drops leads toward the kitchen. He leaps onto the couch, then to the counter. With his hands on his knees, he leans over the edge.

“Pssst, anyone here?”

The cutlery drawer is pulled open, red on the handle and the light blue rag draped over it, and painted over some of the knives. Peter gently closes it.

One of Peter’s feet stretches down to the tiles, and the other soon follows. He drops into a clear puddle that splashes up his calves. The wet spandex suctions to his skin. Instinctively, he kicks his foot, though that just sprays fluid onto the sink cabinet doors. The smell hits him - chemical, nauseating and powerful like rubbing alcohol or butane.

_Shoot._

Careful to avoid touching them, Peter extinguishes some of the nearest, smaller flames with his webs. He tosses his towel over the puddle to soak up as much of it as possible, but it's all over the place. It drips down the side of the sink and trails out of the kitchen. His feet slosh as he tiptoes, following it to what remains of the office.

In the center of the room is a desk that's been split in middle, either by jumping on or tackling it, with remnants of a desktop and monitor mixed in the pile. There's more blood in here, particularly on the large jagged splinters that once were table legs. The wall's dented where a tiny tin trash can was thrown, and the can sits on its side about a foot away. Fire laps at the drywall and massive alpine rug. He hovers over the mess, looking for any sign of a body.

Peter steps around the desk and its previous contents; wet papers, paperweight shards, and office supplies knocked to the ground.

The noise practically bursts his eardrums, piercing and desperate, definitely coming from the heap of trash at Peter's feet. He squats. With two of his fingers, he lifts the corner of the wood and peeks under it to find more glass - _jeez, the whole place is a walking hazard_ \- and a bent, metal cage flipped upside down. Inside, a small white rabbit thumps its hind legs and screams. Its little body heaves in quick, shallow breaths, gasping and pawing at the lid to no avail. The wood thuds loudly as it drops to the ground.

Peter rolls back on his heels.

“They just left you behind, huh?” he says sadly. The screaming pauses, and the rabbit backs up against the rear end of the cage in a couple quick hops. Peter scoots a little closer. Its wide, red eyes remain dead ahead as he pokes one of his fingers inside. The rabbit stares at it for a second before it sniffs him. “I’ll get you out of here.”

He digs the cage free from the rubble on his knees, a fistful of papers in one hand, his fingers entwined with the bars of the cage with the other. The text on the papers bleed, though still legible: they're identical to the reports Peter has to write up for lab, scrawled with a blue ballpoint. They're definitely not about cellular digestion, though. It's not a huge leap to guess they're about his new furry friend. He tucks the sheets between his suit and skin.

Patches of paint on the walls are starting to peel from heat. The flames pick blossom, catching on broken wood and creeping quickly toward the alcohol on the floor. Peter yanks the fire alarm with a web as the trail erupts and speeds toward the hall.

“ _Fire_!” Peter shouts. “Everybody out of the building!”

Bleary eyes peek at him in disbelief and mild annoyance. He releases a breath, and the small space erupts in noise. Bodies funnel down the stairs and out the fire escape. Peter clears the rooms on his way down, holding the rabbit’s cage by two fingers. Most of the doors are flung open, save for one just beside the service elevator. He raps on it with his knuckles. Smoke clouds around his ears.

“Is anyone in there?” he calls. A cough on the other side startles him. “ _Shit_.”

When Peter kicks open the door, the wood groans and collapses into the apartment. Dust poofs into little clouds. It’s marginally cooler inside than in the hall. Peter scans the room - tanks by the couch, not tall enough to hide behind, crayons and papers sprawled all over the floor, blankets spread flat over the cushions. He spies a child crouched under the dining room table, trembling with her arms wrapped tightly around her chest. He crouches low and crab-walks to her side.

“Hey, there. Can you hear me?”

The girl nods.

“Good, awesome. Are you hurt?”

 _No_. He breathes a sigh of relief.

“I’m gonna carry you out. Can you hold this for me?”

Her little arms just barely wrap all the way around the cage. Peter picks her up from the floor. As he approaches the window, the hairs on the back of his neck violently zap to attention.

“Hold on tight, okay?” Peter squeezes her against his chest. She wraps one of her arms around his neck tightly as he unlatches the window and slides it open. The girl adjusts herself so the cage’s corner doesn’t stab him in the chest. In the seconds between her loosening her hold and Peter's hand catching her back, the room ignites.

The resulting explosion violently spits them onto the street. He groans, joints protesting as he crashes into piles of trash.

A deafening, tinny ring blocks out all other sound for a frightening moment. Peter shakes his head, pops his ears, nothing. When it fades, a roar floods his senses. Little orange flames glow on his fingertips like birthday candles. Panicked, Peter thrashes his hand until the heat subsides. The little girl lays still on his thundering heart.

“Hey? Are you okay?” Peter nudges her. She raises her head and erupts into giggles.

“That was awesome,” the girl hiccups between laughs. A smile cracks Peter's panicked expression until it blooms into a fit of stuttering laughs and coughs. She crawls off and dusts her knees off, discarding the rabbit on the concrete. Peter sits up, and immediately, his vision erupts into blue and white fireworks. He rubs his eyes with one hand, unable to do anything but wait for the vertigo to pass. He's out of sync with his body. It feels wrong, like the entire planet shifted an inch to the right and the moment Peter catches up, it shifts again. Tiny, gentle fingers wrap around his wrists and pull him into an upright position. The world slowly settles into place, with her little hand steadying him.

“Thanks, Spider-Man,” the girl says. She squeezes with both hands, and then lets one drop when she decides he’s okay.

“Thank _you_. Who knows how long I would've been stuck on the ground if you didn't pick me up.”

She beams. Peter smiles back, even though she can't see it.

“You were very brave. But if that ever happens again, you should follow the others outside, okay?”

“Nana says never to leave without her,” the girl murmurs, leaning back on her heels.

“She’s right most of the time, but during emergencies, you need to go. Okay?”

“What if I’m scared?”

“Can you keep a secret?”

The beads in her braids jingle as her head bobs up and down.

“I get scared sometimes too, but I have to keep moving until it's safe,” Peter says. Police and firefighters arrive on the scene, telling red and blue flashes illuminating the alley. “Follow the lights, and they’ll help you find your Nana. Okay?”

The girl releases his arm and obediently dashes onto the crowded sidewalk. Alone, he leans against the wall. Inhales. Exhales. Inhales, slower this time. A few terrifying moments pass with Peter worrying he’s been spotted until the vehicle stirs to life and lurches into traffic. The ambulance takes a sharp turn out of his sight. He twists to watch the squad cars trail behind when red-hot pain shoots up his spine. His face scrunches. “Fffffff...”

“ _Your suit is damaged._ ”

“Yeah, and my back,” Peter says between pained gasps. _Ugh._ “Karen, timeout please.”

The lenses snap into thin slits, and the world dulls to a mute. It's like cotton’s been stuffed in his ears. In through his nose, out through his mouth. Breathing in fills his nostrils with decaying, moldy foods and piss and maybe vomit, but it guides his lungs back to a normal breathing pace. He'll just rest here for a couple of minutes and let his advanced healing™ smooth over some of the aching.

“ _And your hands?_ ”

“Fine,” he says in falsetto. They throb.

“ _You need to work on your deception skills._ ”

Peter hushes her, watching the stars until the frantic pounding in his head subsides. Plastic bags crinkle loudly beneath him as he drops all his weight into the pile of trash. Minutes, or an hour passes, and

Swinging home is an ordeal. He has to swap the cage between his hands with every swing, and the poor rabbit trembles with every motion. Finally, he lands on the roof with his stashed backpack.

Peter slaps the plastic spider logo on his chest. The fabric releases and pools around his ankles, leaving him in a pair of sweatpants and a plain tee. Chills run over his arms. It's not freezing, but it's chilly enough to kiss little goosebumps into his skin. He tosses his suit in the bag and takes out a grey ESU jacket lined with soft fleece. Peter pulls up the hood, not even bothering with the zipper. The backpack slumps on his shoulder.

A cacophony wakes up Johnny when Peter finally climbs back through his dorm room window. He sets the bunny on the dresser, drops the backpack, kicks it under the bed with his bare foot, and aggressively throws himself on his mattress, aiming for the confused sleepy look when Johnny turns on the light.

"Did you just climb through the window?" his roommate correctly assumes. He yawns. Peter's obviously sweaty and pink, wafting fresh charcoal and chemical scents throughout the room. His dinner-plate eyes don't sell it well either. If Johnny had super-hearing, he'd hear Peter’s heart physically assaulting him from the inside.

“No.”

“...is that a rabbit?”

"No," Peter says, like a liar. Johnny squints, suspicious, and stares at him in a contest of wills to see who will break first, but exhaustion wins out.

The light switch flips off.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no beta at the time of posting, so i might reupload with edits tomorrow lol sorry

 

_thump thump_

 

The noise breaks Peter's dreamless sleep. Light spills over his cheeks, illuminating his lashes and the nest on his head in gold, shattered into slits from the blinds. The sleep-warm sheets form a cocoon around his splayed form. Peter stuffs his ears with his pillow and hopes for another five minutes of peace.

 

**thump thump thump**

 

“Peter, I forgot my key. Let me in.”

Peter jolts out of bed. Drool sticks to the side of his mouth and puddles on his pillowcase. The knob jiggles thrice. It’s Johnny, of course. They really need to stash a key under the mat or something.

“Sorry!”

He knocks over the coin jar before he grabs the keys. Johnny smirks at him when he opens the door.

“Okay. So. The rabbit.”

“What rabbit?”

The bunny chooses that moment to hop around her cage. Peter tosses a shirt over the bars, though it does nothing to hide the smirk on Johnny's lips, nor erase the hours he probably spent getting ready with her cage completely uncovered.

“That rabbit.”

“I don't see any rabbit.”

“I'm not gonna tell the RA. Just make sure it doesn't shit on any of my stuff. If you need something, text me. Peace,” Johnny says, throwing up two fingers.

“She's not...mine.” By the time Peter finishes, the door slams shut and clicks, leaving him alone with the consequences of his night job. He uncovers the cage, tossing the shirt in his laundry basket, and peeks inside.

The white little rabbit stares up at him with wide, crimson eyes that glint with something erring on intelligence. Her nose twitches; probably smelling the soot on the window ledge and the char mixed in with Peter’s sweat. She's cramped in the bars, anxious. The look on her face practically begs for freedom.

“What am I gonna do with you?” he sighs, squats, sets the cage on the floor and unlocks it. The bunny hops out and stares at him for a fraction of a moment, then beelines straight for the dark space beneath Peter's bed.

She needs food, and water, and probably a checkup from a vet, but he has neither the time nor money to provide the proper care, not even factoring in his extracurricular escapades. He paces. Peter definitely cannot keep her, but he needs to help her.

_Do I know a vet? I don't think I do. Crap, I haven't even been to the shelter in years. I don't know if they take rabbits. Mister Stark might know a vet, it's not an emergency, but...Ned might..._

Peter snaps his fingers. His shirt flies over his face, pants gathering at his knees; he's upside down, sticking to the ceiling by his toes.

_Ned!_

Peter drops into a handstand and flips onto his feet. His back cracks loudly, painfully. He grabs his phone off the charger. A couple messages cover his background - a selfie with Tony in the suit, no mask, holding up his hand while Morgan, in the mask, sits on his shoulder and mirrors his position. Peter’s in it too, but he looks less impressive since he’s just doing his signature webslinging pose sans suit - with the mask though! - and half of his face is cut off by the poor angle. It’s one of his favorite pictures, though.

 

_#cheese-box_

**Neodore** Peter, Peter

 **Neodore** The sun is out

 **gun emoji** no it isnt

 **Neodore** The birds are singing

 **Neodore** Why aren't you in bio

 **Beter** i overslept, sorry

 **Beter** listen ned i have kind of situation going on here, do you think you could come over?

 **Neodore** What kind of situation

 **Beter** [bunnyears.jpg]

 **Neodore** OMG when did you get a bun

 **Neodore** I have to finish this project tho can you bring them over in a couple hours

 **Neodore** Please I'd die for a distraction

 **Beter** dude i need _your_ help

 **Neodore** Ohh sure lol I'll unlock the door for you

 **Beter** tyvm

 

Peter unzips his bag and removes the paperwork. The remaining contents spill on the floor. He plops on the bed, legs crossed with each sheet spread out in front of him. Sections are redacted - poorly, with a Sharpie as if ordered last minute to be scrubbed - but the indents can still be felt through the back. Others are lost in seas of diluted blue ink, words swollen and spread out by water or alcohol, or a little of both. He picks up a page. There's a date scribbled in the upper-righthand corner of the top sheet, what looks to be May of that year. The form reminds him of the type on which Professor Octavius had them track their fungi growth. It's the neatest of all the scrawl structurally, organized into sections: at the top, an abstract. As he reads, he fills in the margins with deciphered versions of the most damaged words.

> _In the RV569 trial, the estimated efficacy of a vaccine rejec_ **_regimen_** _against the....17.7%. We performed a case–control....identify antibody and cellular immune correlates of host-virus symbiosis..._
> 
> _In pilot studies conducted with RV569 blood samples...20 were chosen for primary analysis to determine...(blood_ _done_ ** _?bond?_** _)...rate...and_ ** _antibody_** _responses in the modulation of....performed on samples from...infected vaccinees...to evaluate whether......with 8 months of follow-up…_

“Oh, she was part of a pharmaceutical study,” Peter murmurs to himself as liftd another sheet. Her timidness seems less attributed to the fire, and more to do with the endless prodding she's probably endured.

Speaking of, the rabbit pokes her pink nose out and inspects the red sleeve hanging from his bag. She drags it with her teeth.

> _Of the selected specimen, 09 is the only to respond positively to the vaccine. Human trials delayed indefinitely._

Peter's phone buzzes thrice - Ned telling him to swing by (ha ha) - so he gathers up the mess into slightly less catastrophic pile.

As Peter strips, he winces. His skin still crackles from the fire. He stretches in front of the door where Johnny hung a long mirror. A pink flush covers most of his back. His shoulder blades look like bubble wrap, except with puss instead of air pockets. Peter runs a finger over the burns, and then throws on a loose fitting sweater.

The jeans are another matter entirely; Peter’s palms are just as inflamed and covered in microscopic cuts. Every inch up his legs feels like a mile. Finally, he slips the button through the hole, yanks a pair of socks over his toes, and shoves his feet into some sneakers.

The snowball - because that's what she looks like, a compressed pile of frozen powder - curls up in the mound of Peter's suit, eyes fluttering heavily with exhaustion after last night's anxiety. She burrows into the fabric. Her ears flop back, and she's out.

Peter scoops her up in his arms and deposits her in the cage (after taking a dozen pictures because it's so freaking cute).

He opens the door and jogs for the stairs.

 

Ned lives in a tall, tan brick building with a hundred wide windows, a receptionist and two working (hallelujah!) elevators and a café in the lobby. The café has a mini bakery with scones and muffins and breakfast sandwiches before 11am, and a drink menu so large it'd make a Starbucks employee quake. A couple of the tables are occupied, mostly by people older than Peter holding tablets and occasionally sipping from an absurdly long-named latte. There's even a small, bubbling fountain between the main lobby and the café.

Extravagant, like a fancy hotel. Sometimes Peter has a hard time connecting _this_ with Ned; it’s so much, and the only exuberance Ned embraces usually comes in when building his own computer from scratch. He has some kind of job he's not allowed to talk about - not the kind of secret that Peter has, something that might actually get him thrown in jail or placed on a hitlist if he discloses too much - that, evidently, pays well.

Suddenly the cool breeze teasing Peter’s knees where his jeans worn away and left his skin open to the delicious air conditioning and the sparse dried brown blood stains on the collar of his shirt, drops from a long forgotten injury somewhere along the way, stand out. Even the socks on his feet are worse for wear, a hole on one of the heels and the other torn at the tip. His cheeks warm.

The receptionist rapidly clicks his ballpoint pen. His chest is covered by a maroon jacket and black button up with a black nametag pinned to his lapel that reads _Jaime_ in white cursive, pants concealed behind a low marble counter. Other than a propped up tablet and a clipboard, the counter is uncluttered. Peter’s converse squeak on the tile.

“You need to sign in,” he says, firm but not harsh. The receptionist stops clicking the pen and holds it out by the tip for Peter. He lightly taps a sheet on the counter with his index finger. “What's your name?”

“Sorry,” Peter stutters. He swallows and jostles Snowball on his hip. The messy scrawl on the line looks more like Peppered Pork than his name, but whatever. “Peter. Parker. I'm here to see Ned Leeds.”

“Leeds…” Jaime hums, tapping away. Peter gently places the pen under the clip. “Okay, I got ya. Take the elevator to the third floor. 31B.”

“Thanks.”

 

The door sticks - Ned thinks it’s because the white carpeting is too close to the bottom - so he gives it a little harder tug than he normally expends.  

“Knock knock!”

The apartment is moderate size, opening straight into an open living room lined with white shelves, most filled with memorabilia ranging from _Star Wars_ Lego sets to a limited edition Hulk motif Nintendo Switch. In front of a flatscreen is a simple black futon that folds down into a bed.  There's a stack of textbooks two feet tall, some in loose three-ringed binders and others bound hardbacks, and a dark wooden coaster with a blue ceramic Cap mug on the coffee table. Ned himself sits in the comfiest looking rolling chair, in front of what he considers to be the highlight of the entire place: a home computer with three glass monitors angled like a trifold elementary presentation board.

“Come in,” Ned responds without looking away from the center screen. “Give me like two more minutes, sorry.”

“It’s fine. Is it okay if I let Snowball out? She's kind of cramped in here.” Peter asks. Ned throws a thumb up. Maybe he shouldn’t be giving her a name since that’s step one in getting attached, but he’s already soft on the little rabbit. She appears otherwise unbothered by the change of scenery, from what he can tell, and explores the boundaries of her newest setting.

“I never saw you as a bunny kind of guy. Maybe a cat or parakeet,” he says, barely glancing over at the tiny metal box and ball of fluff hopping his way. He smiles. “If you wanna give her some of the carrot tops from the fridge, go ahead.”

“Thanks.”

It isn't difficult to find the carrots; there’s only leftovers from the Mexican place across from the bodega, three lone carrots, and half a carton of almond milk. At least they have the college diet in common. He tears leaves off and tosses them on a saucer, and the saucer on the kitchen floor. Snowball nibbles with gusto.

“How long have you had her?”

“About 18 hours,” Peter says as he rubs her back. She eats so quickly a pang of guilt hits his stomach. He wasn’t even thinking about the last time she had a meal, not that he’s fed himself any time today either. Snowball’s whiskers twitch and she bolts to the living room. He stands. “I pulled her out of a fire.”

“Ooh,” Ned swipes down on the screen, closing out whatever he was working on. He kneels beside Snowball and holds his out in front of her snout. She sniffs. When she doesn't flinch, he gently pats the top of her head and scritches her ears. “Now I see what your problem is. She's too cute.”

“Criminally adorable. I almost had to turn her in myself,” Peter sighs. “I don’t really know _where_ I’d bring her, though.”

“I think the shelter on 8th still takes in rabbits. You don’t have to worry about the Easter ban,” Ned says as he pulls her on his lap. “If you really do need to turn her in.”

“I think I might have to. I can’t keep her at the dorms.”

“What about here?”

“Huh?”

“We could co-parent. She stays here, and we swap taking care of her,” Ned suggests. “I bet I still have Thumper’s stuff at Gran’s.”

It makes sense; Ned’s had a rabbit before, so they wouldn’t blow any money on new supplies, and they could split the cost on food and the vet bill. Something about Snowball makes him want to keep her around. He really wants to say yes. Plus it’d give Peter another reason to visit Ned every once in a while.

“Are you sure? When I asked for help, I didn’t mean I wanted you to adopt her. I thought you might know what to do with her.”

“One hundred percent."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> s-spare comments?


End file.
